


Out of the Woods

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin can't keep his magic a secret forever, not with the kind of life he leads. He just hopes Arthur can forgive him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Merlin Reverse Bang Challenge, based on Barbitone's INCREDIBLE piece of art! Check it out on her tumblr at http://barbitone.tumblr.com/post/80119720979/merlin-cant-keep-his-magic-a-secret-forever-not

It's just a regular trip through the woods, until it's not.

It had felt like the perfect day, and Merlin thinks that maybe he should have been suspicious of that. He and Arthur, Gwaine and Percy, Elyan and Leon, all riding through the woods a day south of Camelot. They'd camped under the stars, the late winter weather barely warm enough to make the camp comfortable with just a small fire. The air had been crisp and clear with bright stars overhead, and Merlin had lain beside Arthur, listening to the knights and his King snore in the otherwise quiet night.

They'd almost gotten a deer the next morning–this morning– as they'd started circling back towards Camelot, and it was in the midst of their laughter that the attack had come, figures appearing out of nowhere and throwing the group into chaos.

He's not sure where the knights are, though he can hear them fighting, but he can't worry about that right now. Arthur's been knocked from his horse and is struggling upright, blocking blows from the first assailant while the others rush in. Merlin grabs Arthur's spare sword from the one horse that's not spooked and already running away and swings it up, parrying a swing from a black-clad figure. In the corner of his vision he sees more of them coming towards them from all directions. Arthur's swinging like a madman, dodging and parrying and whirling, but a line of red opens on his cheekbone and another on his wrist. A sword scores a bright line on his mail and Arthur stumbles back a step, barely parrying another blow.

They're closing in fast, and Arthur's losing ground. Merlin does what he can, tripping the occasional attacker with his magic while he swings the sword at another, but they're surrounded. 

A blow comes from behind, slicing his side in a white hot line of pain, and he stumbles, trying to keep the sword up. But there's another figure in black just in front and he can't quite get his sword up in time.

Metal flashes mirror-bright in the glow of their torches and the blow is blocked, and Merlin's gaze is filled with Arthur's rain-soaked face. He tries to smile his thanks but there's movement behind the prince and there's no time to warn him--

Bright light explodes in the dark clearing. Men drop all around them, throats slit, and suddenly they're somewhere else, in a different, familiar part of the forest just two days' ride from Camelot. Merlin falls to his knees, staring around with wide, shocked eyes.

"Merlin--" Arthur says, eyes wide as he stares at the empty clearing and then back at the glowing manservant beside him.

Merlin stares back, opens his mouth, and crumples to the ground.

\---

The next thing he sees is a pair of blue eyes floating in front of him and a voice calling his name from far away. Then darkness again.

He wakes up slowly, wincing at the ache in his side. The forest is bright, brighter than his eyes can handle, and the birds are chirping so loudly he's amazed he slept through dawn.

Then the last few days start coming back to him.

 _Why aren't I dead?_ He wonders, staring around in the bright morning sun. _There was a sword coming at Arthur, and I used my magic, and then–_

He tries to sit up, wincing at the pull of bandages and something painful underneath them. He’s had enough sword wounds in the six years he’s been Arthur’s servant that he recognizes the feeling, and slips a careful hand down the blankets to encounter a mass of fabric tied around his middle, heavily padded across his ribs. _I was hit_ , he remembers, _the bandits were everywhere._

But still, nothing between then and waking up.

He props himself up carefully, leaning on his pack. There’s a fire crackling beside him, driving off the dawn chill and the fall breeze, well-banked and cheerful. Beside it is a rough pot, the sort knights carry in their camping gear, tightly lidded. He sniffs, smelling roasted meats and broth, and his mouth waters. It’s in reach and he pulls off the lid carefully. Steam rises from the pot, wafting across the clearing, and he cups his fingers around it gratefully and pulls out the spoon to scoop out a chunk of meat.

It’s rabbit, roughly chopped, and his hand shakes as he lifts it to his mouth. _I must be more injured than I thought._ He closes his eyes as he chews, reaching for that place deep in him where he finds his magic, and frowns. It’s further down than usual, barely embers instead of the roaring blaze he’s used to finding.

A crackle of leaves startles him from the light trance and he sets the pot down with a clatter, struggling to get more upright. A hand drops on his shoulder and eases him back down.

“Careful, Merlin,” says Arthur, eyes unreadable. “You’ll tear your bandages.” He turns back to the fire, adding a log and busying himself with the packs and horse Merlin hadn’t seen on the other side of the clearing.

Merlin stares at him as he works, not sure what to say. Arthur’s efficient, pulling out supplies and setting up camp just as Merlin would on one of their usual hunting trips. 

The silence stretches as the sun rises further in the sky, and Merlin drifts in and out of consciousness. He’s injured, he knows that, but it’s more than just the slice to his side. He’s _drained_ , exhausted, and his magic feels almost empty, weak somehow, and that worries him. What if something happens? What if he needs to protect Arthur? He can feel it rebuilding, though, banked by the trees and forest around him, and he shuts his eyes and lets it flow over him.

The next time he opens them it’s to gentle hands against his skin. They pull off the old bandage and smooth a new one over a fresh application of poultice. A distant part of Merlin wonders who this could be. Is it his mother, somehow? Is he at home in Ealdor, with a fever? He has a feeling he’s not, that that’s not his life anymore, but he can’t quite remember.

His eyes flutter open, but he can’t parse the information they’re giving him. Something bright is shining above him, two bright blue eyes staring down. Or are there four? Or six?

He tries to reach for them, hand drifting upwards, but it’s caught and placed back under the blanket. _Arthur_ , he thinks suddenly. _It’s Arthur, watching over me_.

“Shhh,” whispers Arthur. “Sleep.”

Merlin does.

And then it’s night, somehow, when his eyes open again. The chill wind is cutting through the clearing and Merlin shivers. He tries to curl in on himself but pain lances through his side and he lets out a gasp.

“Stop that,” says a whispered voice, and he flops back down as Arthur’s palm lays across his forehead. “Your fever’s gone down. Good.”

Merlin coughs weakly. “You’re a physician, now?”

“If you can do it, I can too,” Arthur says, snide. “It doesn’t take a genius to feel if your forehead is hot.” But his hands are gentle as he eases Merlin into a sitting position and puts a pack behind him to lean on.

The last few days are slowly filtering back to Merlin, and he freezes when he remembers how he got there. “Arthur–”

“Just get some rest,” Arthur interrupts, the softness gone from his voice. “You’ve been very ill.”

“But–” Merlin’s trying to say something, but he’s not even really sure what. Before he can get anything out, though, Arthur’s up and striding into the forest, grabbing his cloak from where it’s drying by the fire.

Merlin watches him go, heart clenching in his chest.

It’s at least an hour before Arthur returns, this time carrying a pair of rabbits neatly wrapped in the cord of a snare. Merlin’s spent the time drifting, reaching inside himself and chasing the wisps of power that are slowly starting to rebuild. He can feel his body healing a little faster, and by the time Arthur comes into the clearing he’s strong enough to sit up on his own, leaning on the pack.

Arthur crouches in front of the fire, pulling out his dagger to split a stick and making quick work of skinning and cleaning the rabbit. He sets the innards and hide aside and skewers the rest on a spit, pushing the other end into the ground at the edge of the fire. Then he wipes off his hands on the grass and stands, clearing out brush from around the camp and avoiding Merlin’s eyes.

The silence stretches, longer and longer as the sun sinks in the sky and the shadows lengthen. Merlin watches Arthur cook and putter around the campsite until the only light’s the flickering of the fire and Arthur’s pulling the meat off the spits and butchering them with his dagger.

“Here.” He thrusts a rough plank of wood at Merlin. It’s piled high with cooked rabbit, with a small pile of roasted tubers alongside. Arthur fills his own plate and moves to the other side of the fire to eat, but Merlin can feel his eyes on him. Finally, as he chews the last of his rabbit, he can’t stand it any longer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, staring across the fire. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Arthur sets his plate down carefully, gently, and leans forward, eyes narrowed and glinting in the light of the fire between them. “Find out? Find out what, Merlin.” His voice is soft, dangerous, and his hands are folded in front of him, clasped on his knees.

Merlin stares at them through the fire, rather than at Arthur’s closed-off face. “I couldn’t tell you, not yet,” he says, hearing the pleading tone in his voice and hating it. “I wish I could have, but I couldn’t, Arthur.”

“How often.”

“What?”

“How many times have you used magic in Camelot?” Arthur’s voice still has that quiet, controlled tone that makes Merlin’s heart squeeze in his chest.

“I–I don’t know,” he admits. “But it’s always for _Camelot_. For _you._ I would never hurt you, or the kingdom. You have to believe that, Arthur!”

Arthur pushes up from the log and grabs his bedroll, laying it out carefully across the fire, taking his time before meeting Merlin’s eyes. “The word of a _sorcerer_ means very little, to me.” He lays down, crossing his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. “Go to sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.” And with that, he’s silent.

It’s a long time until Merlin can fall asleep.

***

When he wakes, he thinks for a moment that Arthur's gone, that he's left him there to run or to hide or to just be lost in the woods forever. His magic’s still gone, too, and that worries him nearly as much. He’s never felt this way, drained and exhausted and disconnected from everything around him, and it’s not a comfortable feeling. _Is this how people without magic feel all the time?_ thinks Merlin. He shifts uncomfortably, reaching out tendrils of his mind to try and grasp at _anything_ around him, but there’s nothing. He’s just starting to panic a little, alone and powerless, feeling closed in by the blankets and the low clouds and the emptiness and he feels himself beginning to shake uncontrollably, anxiety bubbling in his chest.

But then he hears a rustling in the bushes and Arthur crashes out.

"Storm clouds on the horizon," he says, short. "We won't make it to Camelot in time. Get up."

Merlin struggles upright, wincing but managing it. His magic hasn’t returned while he slept, but his natural resilience means he’s healed and gotten back some strength that wasn't there the day before. He can feel wisps of power, simmering deep inside him, and he reaches for them as his injury strains. He’d welcome it back, despite everything, he thinks, closing his eyes briefly. It's so much a part of him, his magic, and he never really realized that it until it was gone. But now there's only wisps of it flickering deep down and instead of his usual warmth, there’s a chilled hollow inside of him.

The rest of him isn't any warmer, and he shivers as the temperature drops. Arthur's leading him on a quick march through the brush, hastily packed camp tucked into bags and blankets and shoved into saddlebags. The one horse that made the jump from wherever they’d been to here is skittish, breathing hard, eyes flicking across the trail as Arthur leads it. Merlin follows the two of them, panting as weakened muscles are forced to work.

It starts with one drop, then another: freezing, slushy rain that drills holes through Merlin's tunic. It speeds up quickly, though, until seconds later it's pounding down and he's soaked through and shivering. Merlin is pretty sure he's been more miserable, at some point in his life, but at the moment he honestly can't recall when. All he can see in front of them through the driving sleet are trees and a wall of rock that goes nearly straight up. It's towards that that Arthur is leading them, and if circumstances were different Merlin would ask about their plan and maybe heckle Arthur for letting them get stuck out here in the first place. As it is, though, he just follows quietly, trying not to whimper as his injury pulls with every step.

But then Arthur turns, tugging the horse with him, and Merlin nearly stumbles at the change in direction. There's a gap in the wall, he realizes, and that's what Arthur's looking for.

The rain is falling even harder as Merlin squeezes in past the horse to find himself in a small, mostly-dry cave that's just big enough for the two of them. The horse blows out a long breath, flanks shivering as it drips dry under the overhang at the entrance of the cave. Merling flops down against the wall, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wound, as Arthur gathers brush from the stunted trees under the ledge, dragging them inside as Merlin pulls his knees to his chest and shivers violently.

Arthur piles them just far enough from the entrance and the horse that there’s no danger of the rain putting it out and starts to fumble for a flint, then freezes and turns to Merlin, a challenge in his gaze. “Light it,” he says.

“What?”

“Light the fire, if you’re a sorcerer.”

“I–I can’t.” 

“What do you mean, you _can’t_?”

“Something’s wrong, my magic–it’s not coming back the way it should be.” Merlin’s hands are trembling as he stares at the wood piled in front of him.

Arthur glares at him. “What do you mean, Merlin? You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?” 

“It doesn’t work that way.” Merlin’s getting angry now, willing Arthur to understand. “It’s not unlimited, Arthur! I can’t just pull it from the air! There’s a balance, and I’ve upset it!”

“That’s what sorcerers _do!_ They upset nature, and order, and everything normal,” says Arthur, harsh. “So _light the fire._ ”

Merlin meets his eyes, something he hasn’t done much these last few days, and grits his teeth, before taking a deep breath and visualizing a flame deep in the pile of wood.

Nothing happens. He tries harder, reaching deeper, but still, nothing. Arthur opens his mouth, a furrow forming in his brow as sweat beads on Merlin’s forehead.

“You see?” He’s panting, leaning over, and the pile of wood is still ice-cold.

“Where does it come from, then?” asks Arthur, curious despite himself. “How can it just–not work?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t _know_! It’s just–not there!”

“And you can’t get more? Summon a demon, sacrifice a baby, whatever it is you people do?”

There’s a pounding in Merlin’s temples, beating at the back of his eyes. “Arthur–”

“Really, though, Merlin, it seems you’re as shoddy at this as you are at servant work–” 

Something cracks inside Merlin as he opens his mouth to reply, furious, and he’s interrupted by a jet of flame in the center of the pile, shooting up nearly to the level of his head before settling into a comfortable, blazing fire.

There’s a crackle of leaves underfoot and a thud as Arthur steps back, hitting the wall, and Merlin slumps down and stares into the cheerfully blazing fire instead of meeting Arthur’s eyes once more. The anger’s drained from him as if it was never there, and there’s a torrent of power filling him. Suddenly he can feel the world around him, the trees outside and the birds in the bushes and even the old, sturdy power of the rocks and the earth beneath them. He closes his eyes, letting it wash through him, ignoring Arthur, who’s staring into the fire with his mouth open. 

After a moment, Merlin collects himself and reaches into his pack to pulls out the rabbit meat they’d dried the night before after they’d finished eating what they could. He holds a piece out, as he would to a skittish dog, and after a moment Arthur takes it and sits down beside the fire, again across from Merlin instead of beside him where he’d usually sit on a night out hunting. 

The fire is warm, but there’s not much wood to burn so they keep it small, just feeding it when it dies down too low. Merlin’s still damp, shuddering with tremors from the cold, and Arthur’s not much better off. The silence grows longer and longer and Merlin can feel Arthur's eyes boring a hole in the side of his face as he tries to focus on warming himself at the fire. The power’s boring a channel through him, from the night sky to the ground like a lightning strike.

Finally, Arthur sighs. "Merlin," he says, the ice in his voice a little less hard than before. "Can't you do something to warm yourself up? You look like you're about to freeze to death."

Merlin shakes his head, choosing his word carefully. "It doesn't work like that, Arthur."

"It doesn't?" Merlin finally risks looking up at Arthur, whose face is cautious, but seems genuinely curious.

"It’s not–it’s not easy," says Merlin, shifting uncomfortably on the stone in an effort to get closer to the fire. "I spent all my power, what I usually have, and it wasn’t till now that I got any back. And now–" he shakes his head. “Magic is all around us, Arthur. It funnels through me, when I let it, I think. Using the magic I’m connected to in nature? It’s much bigger than the small stuff. Much more dangerous, especially when I’m tired and can’t quite control it.”

“Dangerous enough to kill a King?”

“I–”

“Nevermind,” says Arthur, teeth clenched as he dangles his dried meat over the fire, warming it up. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’d never– Arthur, you have to believe me, I’d never put you in danger,” Merlin says, desperate to be understood. His fists clench, shaking in his lap. “I know–I know you don’t believe me, but–”

“Don’t,” interrupts Arthur. “Just don’t.”

They’re both silent for a few minutes, staring into the fire. It cracks and pops and hisses, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the cave. Behind Arthur, the horse nickers softly, shifting closer to them.

The silence stretches until it seems to go on forever. Merlin glances at Arthur, from time to time, as he eats his share of the rabbit in silence, but Arthur’s eyes remain fixed on the fire.

Finally Arthur looks up to see Merlin holding his hands close to the flames and rubbing them together, teeth chattering in the wind that’s still sweeping into the cave. He shakes his head, standing and rustling in the saddlebags they'd pulled from the horse. The two bedrolls are still attached and he pulls them out to dry, squeezing excess water from their blankets and making a face when both release rivulets of water that hiss as they run into the fire. His cloak, almost dry after laying beside the fire, he hands to Merlin. “Take this.”

“Arthur–” Merlin starts, trying to quell his shivers.

“Just take the damn cloak, Merlin. I’ll not have you freeze to death when it’s barely even still winter.”

Merlin snorts, wrapping the cloak around himself and pulling it tight, feeling the warmth of the fire and Arthur’s body seeping into him. “There’s a foot of snow of the ground and the river is covered in ice. It is definitely still winter.”

“Some of us aren’t delicate flowers,” says Arthur, a glimmer of a smile on his face.

Merlin can feel something unclenching in his chest, and he gives a tentative smile back. “And some of us don’t eat an extra pie every night.”

Arthur tosses a handful of leaves at Merlin, snickering as they stick in Merlin’s hair and he spits one out of his mouth. “It’s muscle, Merlin. Muscle keeps you warm. Better than being just bones like you.”

Merlin eyes Arthur’s stomach, silently raising his eyebrows, and Arthur rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin does, but the silence is much more comfortable than before.

***

The temperature drops quickly, though, and the sleet shows no signs of slowing down. If anything, it’s falling harder and faster as the night goes on. Their firewood supply dwindles as they burrow into their mostly-dry blankets, and Merlin can hear Arthur shifting in his bedroll across the fire.

And it keeps dropping, until Merlin’s curled in a tight ball as close to the fire as he dares get, but still can’t feel his fingers or toes. He rolls a little closer to the flames, stretching out so he can curl around it, but his elbow bumps something soft as he tucks it under his head.

He looks up, blinking, and meets Arthur’s eyes from much closer than he recalled the other man being. Somehow, in both their efforts to get closer to the fire, they’ve shifted so they’re nearly head-to-head. Merlin squints in the near-darkness but he can’t quite tell the expression on Arthur’s face. He’s distracted from the effort, though, but another spasm of shivers that rushes through him.

"Oh for–Merlin, come here." Arthur sits up and drags his blankets around the fire until he’s as far from the entrance and as close to Merlin as he can be, and gestures impatiently to Merlin.

Merlin sits up as well, keeping his blanket tight around his shoulders. "What?"

“I told you. I’m not letting you freeze to death.” Arthur opens his blankets, rustling in the dim light, but Merlin still doesn’t move. “Come on, Merlin,” Arthur commands, and Merlin sits up hesitantly.

Even in the dark Merlin can tell Arthur’s rolling his eyes. “You’re letting all the heat out.” He gestures impatiently, and Merlin shuffles closer until he’s close enough that Arthur can tug his blankets away to build a sort of nest right up close to the fire around the two of them. He pulls Merlin down, tucking him between the edge of the embers and his own shoulder, and tucks the two sets of blankets tightly around them both.

Somehow Merlin can’t find it in himself to try to understand what’s happening. He’s injured, exhausted, and finally warming up after shivering for what felt like hours. He drifts off to the sound of rain falling and Arthur’s familiar, even breathing beside him.

***

Merlin wakes slowly, groggy and warm and much more comfortable than he remembers being. He’s still lying on the ground, just a few blankets between him and hard-packed dirt, but there’s a warmly breathing mass on his chest that’s snoring slightly.

It takes him a moment to get oriented, to remember where he is, and it's not until he shifts and Arthur lets out a sleepy grumble that he realizes who, exactly, is curled up against him.

Arthur's fast asleep against Merlin's chest, breath warm and damp against Merlin's neck and one arm slung low over Merlin's hip. His hand lays flush against Merlin's hip, curled around him with fingertips brushing the skin bared in the night as his clothes shifted.

Merlin is at a loss for what to do. He's torn between pulling away and closing his eyes to sink back into the delicious warmth of the blankets, but the decision's made for him when Arthur's eyes blink open, drowsy and blue in the morning light. He smiles up at Merlin, gaze open and bleary, and it's a few seconds before he freezes and his eyes harden like a shutter slamming closed. He pulls back, untangling himself from Merlin, and stands. Merlin follows him after a moment, feeling a little bereft.

His wound is almost healed, now, only twinging when he moved and completely scabbed over, pink, new skin forming at the edges. He can help Arthur break down the camp this time, working in silence as they scatter the embers and gather their meagre belongings.

Neither of them rides, this morning, walking on either side of the horse. The sun’s finally shining and the temperature is rising, and if it weren’t for the current of awkwardness between them, it would be actually a pretty nice day for a walk.

Merlin’s not sure what part of it’s the magic, and what part’s the accidental cuddling, but either way, he’s so wrapped up in a cloud of awkward gloom that he doesn’t hear the branches behind them crack under a foot.

Arthur does, though. His sword’s out in an instant, but there are three figures, coming towards them from the trees. They’re dressed raggedly but warmly, each with a long knife and a bow slung over a shoulder. _Bandits_ , thinks Merlin distantly, as he reaches for Arthur’s spare sword.

Arthur’s eyes meet his over the saddle and the King smiles, just a little twist of his lips, and jerks his head towards the bandits who are just a few moments away, now. 

When Merlin just gapes at him, Arthur rolls his eyes. “Use your _magic_ , you dollophead!”

This time, it’s not torn from him by the urgency. He can use it like a scalpel, time slowing as he sends ribbons of power toward each to toss them back into the trees. It’s easy, and they yell in surprise. Arthur leaps forward and disarms one still form, then another, as Merlin grabs the third. Ropes appear from nowhere, coiling around each bandit’s wrists.

It’s not even a fight, now that Merlin’s able to use his power openly, and Arthur looks a little awed as the three men are yanked into a neatly tied line, still unconscious. The end of the rope falls straight into Arthur's free hand, and he ties them to a tree for the knights to come back and handle. They're just a few hours' ride from Camelot, now, but he'd rather not have to manage captives with only Merlin and a single horse.

Merlin turns, the glow fading from his eyes, and faces Arthur. He's tense, nervous, and shaking as the adrenaline and power fade from his body.

"That's twice you've saved me with magic," says Arthur. "Twice that I've seen." he shakes his head. "Merlin–"

"And I'll do it again," interrupts Merlin. "Even if you have to have me put to death."

Arthur shakes his head. "I need you to tell me. Tell me all of it."

So Merlin does. He starts with the witch impersonating the singer, and his spell on the chandelier, continues through the assassination attempts, the poisons, the dragon, all of it. And through it all, Arthur watches him, inscrutable but not visibly angry, and all Merlin can do is continue. The story pours out of him: how he was doing magic before he can even remember, what happens when he tries to avoid using it, and even the times it's gone wrong, or not worked at all.

It takes them through the afternoon and into the evening, until Merlin starts to stumble, still exhausted from injury and magic. Arthur mounts the horse and reaches a hand down, swinging Merlin up into the saddle in front of him.

Merlin tries to stay awake, tries to keep talking, but Arthur's chest is warm and familiar behind him and he fades into sleep.

He rouses once, jolted by the horse's motion, but Arthur shushes him and keeps him caged in by his arms. Merlin thinks he hears Arthur whisper, "Rest, Merlin," but he can't be sure.

***

At the treeline, Merlin stirs to full wakefulness as Arthur slows his horse, then stops it at the edge of the grassy meadow. In the distance, Camelot’s light stone is almost glowing in the barely-there late evening light.

“I thought it might look different,” Arthur says, quiet. “Now that I know how much goes on out of my view.”

“It’s still the same place,” Merlin says, yawning and wriggling a little to get comfortable on the front of the saddle. “It’s still Camelot. And it’s still home.” He leans back into Arthur’s broad chest, resting the back of his head on Arthur’s shoulder so their cheeks brush. 

Arthur’s head tilts just a little, cheek brushing Merlin’s, and he gathers the reins in one hand  so he can wrap the other firmly around Merlin’s waist. “Thank you,” he says, quietly. “For everything you’ve done for my kingdom.”

Merlin pulls away a little, contorting until he can meet Arthur’s eyes. “It wasn’t for the kingdom, Arthur. Well, I mean, it _was_ , but–it was all for you. I want you to know that.”

Arthur’s eyes hold his for a long moment, something vulnerable and open in them that Merlin can’t quite figure out, then he smiles a crooked smile. “I could know you a hundred years and never really understand you, Merlin,” he says, kicking the horse back into a slow walk. 

Merlin sinks back against him. “I like the sound of that.” 

It’s all downhill, from here to the castle, and Merlin smiles into the morning light as his King takes him home. Something’s different, between them, and he’s looking forward to seeing exactly what that is.

 


End file.
